320. ‘Your crooked eyes invite me with sidelong glances.
Your gaze, poised between your lashes, thirsts for blood.
The fire of love-in-separation has consumed me,
more than the whole world put together.
My heart can no longer bear this agony for you,
since it is not made of stone like yours.
As my soul burns in separation’s fire,
I remember you more and more.
Why did God inflict the pain of love on me,
if he did not also make you merciful?
Having suffered this grief alone, my heart knows one thing for certain:
either my arms will enfold your neck, or my severed head will be in your hands.
321. ‘I do not burn in this fire alone.
Who in the world does not desire you?
No one would know the story of our love,
if my two eyes had not told it crying.
Whoever finds his soul in your body
would surely take it back from you.
My soul was lost, and I could not find it.
Whoever I asked pointed to you.
Since I joined my soul to yours,
it abandoned me and became yours.
What kind of bargain was this? Did I go there to trade at a loss?
In all of this I’ve lost my capital, so what hope can there be of gain?’
322. When Madhumālataī, the lotus bud,
heard his words, she blossomed.
Opening her lips, her store of nectar,
she spoke, ‘I feel shame before my friend,
yet modesty does not remain
when love awakens in the heart.’
Pemā said, ‘Do not be shy,
but think that you and I are one.’
Then she who was consumed with grief
abandoned her modesty and said,
‘My lord, I am half my former self,
consumed with sorrow for you.
Out of modesty, I have not told anyone
of my pain, but burnt secretly in my body.
On one side there was my family’s honour, on the other the pain of love.
Both sides were very difficult for me—harm my family or suffer in my heart.
323. ‘You say you suffered grief for me,
but how could you endure the terrible blaze
of love-in-separation? From shame
I kept my love concealed, spoke to no one.
All my friends and companions
knew nothing of my secret pain.
On the one hand stood Death,
on the other, my suffering for you.
When Death saw my sorrow for you,
he drew back his hand in defeat.
Death is content to kill only once, but separation
slays a person from moment to moment.
You were capricious and heartlessly cruel. You played with the world and then left.
How could a helpless woman like me survive, struggling every moment to keep alive?’
324. When the Prince heard her words,
he cried and said, ‘My sorrow is not hidden
from you—you know every detail
of what you have done to my heart.
Why do you ask about the grief
of one who lives within your heart?
Why do you ask me about my sorrow?
Ask yourself what you have done to me,
for I live always within your soul.
Why enquire from me about grief?
Your abode, O maiden, is forever within my innermost heart.
Why then, knowing its every secret, do you ask me about my sorrow?
325. ‘How could you hide your face from me
if your locks did not act as a veil?
Your flowing locks and my soul
become enamoured on seeing your face.
Just as at noon on a harsh day
one cannot look at the sun directly;
there is nothing between the sun and the eye,
but the sun’s brilliance acts as its own veil,
so perhaps it is with your radiant face.*
How could my feeble hands reach out
to draw the locks away from your face?
Gather up your locks, O maiden, and let the bright radiant sun come out,
so that my eyes, burnt by separation, may be satisfied by my darling’s beauty.’
326. ‘If someone seeks to look at my beauty,’
said Madhumālatī, ‘then he must hear
something very special I have to say.
He should hesitate to open my eyes,
but should first borrow vision from them,
then come forward. My beauty requires
no ordinary sight, but that special vision.*
When you gain that sight from my eyes
and have a vision of my beauty,
then nothing else will satisfy you.
I tell you, O Prince, it is certain
that you cannot see me with your eyes.
Renounce your life, your youth, your body and mind, your eyes and ears.
Only then will your real eyes open, through which you will understand everything.’
327. ‘You live always within my heart,’
replied the Prince, ‘and my tongue
is constantly repeating your name.
Your place is in my eyes,
so what need have I to borrow vision?
Your vision is within my eyes
which are blind without your light.
What could my sightless eyes hope to see,
unless you are within them?
The places your radiant beauty does not light
are shrouded in darkness, though the sun shines.
O maiden, where the lustrous moon of your face does not rise,
there, though a thousand suns should shine, only darkness remains.
328. ‘You remember all the things we said,
and the vows we took with God between us?
Your face is the full moon that illumines the world.
How can it remain hidden, O maiden?
You dwell forever in my heart—
why do you hide your face from me?
Satisfy me, give me the nectar of your lips,
that my departing soul may tarry in my body!
Quickly reveal your beauty, girl,
or do you seek to destroy my life?
Have I committed a sin, do I have a fault, that you hide your face from me?
My only fault is this, that I have raised you above the totality of Creation.’
The Promise of True Love
329. Hearing his words the lotus bud blossomed,
and accepted the love in the Prince’s sweet words.
‘I am very much afraid of my family,’ she said,
‘Who would sin and destroy everything they had?
I would be ruined, my family would suffer abuse,
and my parents and relations would be disgraced.
If you swear an oath, my darling,
I will come and sacrifice myself to you.
Give me your solemn word of honour, my lord,
and I will come to embrace you close.
It is the burning blaze of love I feel in my heart, not the fire of fear,
but let not the black stain of sin blemish the cloth of my virtue!
330. ‘I tell you truly, O Prince, once honour is lost
it can never be regained. If you boil water
and let it cool, it loses its flavour.
A withered flower does not lose its scent,
nor does its beauty fade forever,
but it can never regain its splendour
or be treated with the same respect.
Just so, if a woman loses her honour,
she ruins her life for herself completely.
As long as my father does not offer me to you in the sacrament of marriage,
there can never be carnal love
between us, but you may take any other pleasure in me.’
331. The Prince replied, ‘Listen, dear love,
we swore an oath to each other at the beginning.
We called on Rudra, Brahma, and Hari,
to witness the promise we made together.
That promise still holds true between us.
No one should set foot on the path of sin.
Now again I swear a binding oath.
I am not making this up at all,
but this is my solemn promise:
As long as the tree of righteousness
does not bear lawful fruit for me,
I shall not eat forbidden fruit, though it be sweet.
Until we are legally joined in matrimony, O most alluring of maidens,
sin shall not enter between us, for this is the ordinance of God.’
332. When she heard the vow, the Princess
let down her veil of shy modesty.
When he saw the radiance of her face,
the Prince grew restless with love.
When she saw him thus, the maiden ran
and raised him up as he lay there helpless.
She said, ‘Do not think I was proud, my lord!
I have left all pride and embrace you in my arms.’
They both stood up and embraced each other,
burst into flames, like gold and borax in the fire.
On the day when two parted lovers unite and their hopes are fulfilled,
all three worlds are happy—heaven, earth, and hell celebrate their joy.
The Lovers United
333. No one can know the secret mystery
of the things that passed between their hearts.
It was like a thirsty man falling into the Ganges,
or a dead man coming back to life again.
Her two breasts entered his heart, and his lips
satisfied themselves with the juice of her lips.
How can the tongue describe the joy
that two lovers feel when united with one another?
Their two bodies joined with one another,
and one or two watches of the night passed thus.
Though drowning in water to their very noses, the lovers remained yet thirsty.
I have described their outer state, but who can know what happened within?
334. Then they sat down on the bed together,
splendid, like Ratī and fish-bannered Kāmadeva.*
Sometimes they spoke of their former sorrows,
and at times they remained in close embrace.
The sun set and the moon rose,
and the two rested on the same bed.
They say the true reward of earthly life
is when two parted lovers reunite.
In their joy they stayed awake all night,
but what is morning to eyes filled with sleep?
They slept happily together, lips joined to lips, breast to breast.
Seeing them together one could not tell whether they were two or one.
335. Pemā placed a silken curtain across the door,
and stayed on guard outside the pavilion.
She had sixty girlfriends with her,
and each of them had four serving maids.
All of them were pretty and youthful,
with matching ages and appearances.
Laughingly they all played there together.
Pemā was the moon, they were the stars.
All around the picture-pavilion and its doors
they set up barricades of silken cloths.
Here Pemā played games imbued with the essence of sahaja with her friends,
but there a creeper of doubt was spreading in the heart of Rūpamañjarī.
Queen Rūpamañjarī is Amazed
336. As Queen Rūpamañjarī was seated,
she suddenly became worried in her heart.
Upset and perplexed in her mind,
she stood up, apprehensive at heart.
She sent for Madhurā and said to her,
‘My daughter has gone off and left me thus.
The two girls left here in the evening.
Now nobody knows what’s happened to them.
For what reason could two royal Princesses,
leave home and spend the night in a pavilion?’
Madhurā replied, ‘I will send a maidservant to them with a message,
and they will come back in a moment. Sit down and do not worry.’
337. Rūpamañjarī said, ‘I’ll just go for a moment
and see where Pemā and Madhumālatī are.
Otherwise I shall be worried and anxious,
for I have a suspicion about that picture-pavilion.’
‘Listen to me, O Queen,’ replied Madhurā,
‘you are clever, wise, and always practical.
The path is long and the night is dark.
Why go to the picture-pavilion at all?
You sit here and I will send for them,
or if you want, I shall fetch them myself.
The two are girlhood friends, enjoying themselves and playing games together.
What business have you and I to intrude among these young girls?’
338. Madhurā restrained her in many ways,
but the Queen remained restless in her heart.
‘They are childhood friends playing together,
enjoying themselves in their father’s house.
They have been separated for many days.
Let no one stop them playing together!’
But Rūpamañjarī would not be stopped
from going immediately to the pavilion,
though Madhurā was most embarrassed.
She took twenty maidservants with her,
and went with the Queen to the pavilion.
Even though Madhurā stopped her many times, the Queen would not listen.
She went herself to the picture-pavilion, and saw there all the signs of love.
339. One is ashamed to describe what she saw
when the Queen reached the picture-pavilion.
The sun’s rays were hidden in the moon’s orbit.
Seeing the sun, the moon had given up its brilliance.
The Queen saw this and became black as Rāhu.
She came to Pemā and abused her roundly,
‘Shameless one, don’t you care about my honour?
Why have you let this virgin cloth be stained?
I left her with you, trusting in your care.
Why have you brought disgrace on my family?
The saints have said so before, and their sayings have been proven true,
that one becomes evil oneself if one associates with evil people.’
340. Pemā said, ‘Now listen to what I am saying.
You are a mother to me, so I suffer your words.
I am not upset at your insults or abuse,
since I regard you as I do my mother Madhurā.
But first you must establish that I have sinned,
then you may abuse me as you wish.
Don’t let your heart deceive you, O Queen,
these two are as pure as Gagā water.
I know everything about their former love,
and all that has happened between them.’
Pemā then told the story from the beginning, of how the two lovers had met,
how their beds were changed and their rings, and how their hearts were now at peace.
341. The Queen called Pemā to her side and asked,
‘Give clear answers to these my questions.
Tell me why he behaves like this.
Is he an unhappy beggar or a lordly king?
Is he from a noble family or a base one?
Why is he dirty—is it from separation’s sorrow?
Did he hear about Madhumālatī from someone,
or did he fall in love the moment he saw her?’
Then Pemā told her all there was to tell,
‘Kanaigiri
is a beautiful fort, and Sūrajbhānu is its king and protector.
He is the heir to that kingdom, and his mother Kamalā’s life’s support.
342. ‘But listen, O mother, in these two lovers’ minds,
there is nothing except seeing and touching the other.
I am not such a fool that I would mix
water and purest milk. Her pool of nectar*
is as full today as the day she was born.
Although they are absorbed in love,
they have not destroyed themselves with sin.
They are still thirsty for the water of the Ganges.
The lotus bud has not opened yet,
nor has the intoxicated bee entered into the flower.
The rains of Svāti are still thundering, massing in the sky for the oyster shell.*
The Lord has kept Madhumālatī as pure today as on the day she was born.’
The Lovers Separated
343. When the Queen heard Pemā’s words,
she was relieved and her heart became calmer.
‘Truly,’ she said, ‘she was always crying,
and concealed her tears from me out of shame.
Sometimes she seemed amazed and looked around
everywhere; at times she was still and silent, unseeing.
Sometimes she leaned her head against the bed-frame,
at times she would stand up and laugh aloud.
Sometimes she would talk to herself in the mirror.
At times her eyes brimmed with tears of blood.
Sometimes she would not eat for several days, at times wrap her face up and weep.
At other times she slept with her face covered, distraught with the pain of separation.*
344. ‘What came over you, you wicked girl—
why did you throw ghee on a dying fire?
As it is she was indifferent and renouncing him,
so why did you strike her with this lightning?
She did not even remember her own self,
so why did you hurl this thunderbolt at her?
Someone brought into her bedroom
a golden bed, studded with precious gems,
and since then she has lived constantly
as if she were dying at every moment.
She does not eat food, nor drink sweet water.
Today I have learnt everything, so now I can understand this mystery.
Why did you cut off a greening branch? And by what dharma* did you then act this way?’
345. So angry was the Queen that she became senseless.
She was weeping as she said to her maidservants,
‘Separate these two lovers instantly,
like water slides off the feathers of a wing!’
The women turned the two lovers apart,
as if splitting one body in two pieces.
Their eyes were shut in such a charmed sleep,
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